


your work in progress

by Trojie



Series: Bandom Bingo 2017 [2]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, The Used
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angry Sex, Angst and Porn, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Rough Sex, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Unhappy Ending, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 10:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10332254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: Gerard knows it's a bad idea, okay? He always knows.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadySmutterella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySmutterella/gifts).



> Read the tags. Heed the tags. And if YOUR NAME is in the tags, dude, hit the back button now, I am so incredibly not kidding.
> 
> For the square 'beloved enemies' on my Bandom Bingo, and for a request I just couldn't help but itch to fulfill, because the only thing better than angst or porn on their own is ... angsty porn?

The stupid thing is, Gerard can't fucking help it. Bert'll give him _that_ look and he'll tell himself no. And he won't say anything. Sooner or later Bert will leave whatever party was big enough that Gerard had told himself they wouldn't run into each other, and Gerard will finish his soda, and Mikey will look at him and say, 'dude,' quietly. 

And Gerard will know it's a bad idea. Okay? He always knows. 

But they don't have meetings for this kind of shit. Gerard doesn't get to stand up in front of unjudging people and say, 'I keep letting myself be shoved face down and fucked by someone who can't even like, bring himself to call me a cunt until he's lighting his fucking post-coital cigarette.'

So he tells himself he won't, but he does it anyway. 

***

He doesn't like it. The fucking. It's not like he enjoys it. 

He thinks maybe that's why he keeps doing it.

If it was good he'd … know it was bad? Or something. Whatever. Bert's leaning against the side of a bus - whose bus? Gerard doesn't know, doesn't care as long as it's not his band's fucking bus - and smoking. In the tiny smear of orange light the cigarette-end gives off, all Gerard can make out is the angle of his jaw and the hollow of his cheeks, the faintest suggestion of his brow and nothing but yawning fucking void where his eyes should be. 

Gerard walks towards him anyway, opening a pack of his own, thinking about the painting he'd make of the scene, if he could still pick up a brush any more without feeling like a fraud. (They tell him that'll go away, eventually. He's not so sure.) Bert reaches out and takes the cigarette from his fingers as soon as he's in range, lights it from his own and hands it back. 

You'd almost think it was friendly, the way they lean together against the still-warm metal of the chassis. Their elbows bump. Gerard's leather jacket isn't enough to shield him from the night air, but Bert's got the booze-blanket on, like always - bare arms in an old merch shirt, jeans that are more hole than denim, he's never cold at night. Fuck, he's hardly ever _cold_ after lunchtime. Gerard remembers what that was like. 

Bert finishes his cigarette and drops the end, grinds it out with his boot heel and reaches for Gerard's. He pulls it from Gerard's lips even though it's not even halfway down to the filter, mashes it into the asphalt, and now Gerard can see his eyes. There's a smirk in them, somewhere under the haze, and Gerard doesn't want to taste sour beer and cheap vodka, so he turns himself around before Bert can try and kiss him. 

Bert's arms go around him. Fuck. He's always warm, and he always holds on like he likes having you right there in his hold, and Gerard can't help the fucking homecoming shudder that runs through him even though he knows it's not like that anymore, if it ever was. He can feel Bert's fingers fumbling at his belt buckle for proof. 

When his jeans are hanging open, pulled down and clinging somewhere around his cold-sweaty thighs, Bert's flies are already open, denim scraping Gerard's skin. Gerard knows better to expect that this'll go fast, though. Bert leans into him, blankets him, cock already hard and starting to leak, and just … holds. God knows why he always wants to draw this out. Gerard wiggles against him, trying to get him to just fucking ante up. 

Eventually the hands that were spread across Gerard's belly slide back around, and there's the sound of spitting and, shit, if he needed a fucking reminder of exactly what this is and exactly why he shouldn't be fucking doing it, it'd be that - the feeling of being fingered open on spit and hope and drunken optimism. 

It doesn't take as long as it should. 'Be careful, asshole,' Gerard snaps tightly, when Bert's cock bumps up against him and pushes too hard at the wrong angle to get anywhere, like he's not even trying to - and he's not, he's got both hands on Gerard's hips, he's just fucking rutting like an animal. 

An animal who's not using a condom.

Gerard shouldn't let Bert do it, but he knows he's going to. It's fine. He'll find somewhere to get checked. He'll tell Mikey he's going to a meeting. And it's not like he's making time with anyone else but his own hand, so he doesn't have to feel guilty on Bert's behalf, not when he's pretty sure he's not that fucker's only booty call on this circuit. 

He doesn't feel guilty on Bert's behalf for any fucking thing anymore. 

Bert doesn't say a goddamn word, not a fucking thing, even though Gerard's swearing at him as his dick finally actually gets the right place, the right push, and starts to slide in. It hurts. It aches. Gerard's not hard, not any more, but he's on fire for it anyway, somewhere between turned on and furious. He snarls and shoves himself back onto it, wanting it deeper, wanting it over with, wanting - fuck. Something. Something he hasn't had in a year, but keeps trying to resurrect. Keeps trying to exorcise.

'Fucking get it in, if you're gonna,' he spits, and Bert sighs venomously into his ear in a gust of booze and _slams_ into him so hard his elbows give out and he's mashed face-and-chest into the bus. All the wind leaves him in a split second and the bus rocks on its suspension and and Christ he's hard now, so fucking hard he could drill concrete with it. 

Bert's mouth curves into a shark's grin against the skin of his neck, and ohhh, oh fuck it hurts. 

Gerard arches back into Bert and fights hard enough to get his arms back under him and gives as good as he gets. And he gets a lot. Bert kicks his feet til he widens his stance and that's just fucking fine - Gerard bends his knees and braces himself, until Bert bites him under the crook of his jaw and pulls out - 

'Mother _fucker_ -' Gerard spits, half-tripping over his jeans as they fall, and Bert spins him around, grabs him back by the hips and hitches him up. Gerard kicks his shoes off, shakes one ankle til the jeans fall away and wraps his thighs around Bert's hips, squeezing as tight as he can, vindictively. 

Bert's dick goes in easier the second time around. Gerard's head clunks against the bus, and he claws what fingernail he's got into Bert's shoulders and hangs on for dear fucking life. Bert tries to lean in again and Gerard won't let him, won't kiss him, can't take that taste, those memories, not unless he wants to _need_ a meeting as well as a fucking STD clinic tomorrow. 

Bert makes a thwarted, aborted noise and buries his face in Gerard's throat, starts to bite and pull at the thin, fluttering skin there with his teeth, licking and bruising and abusing it. Mikey's gonna look at Gerard all sad and angry-quiet tomorrow over coffee. Ray'll sigh. Frank'll be impossible to get away from on stage, not til he's left his own teethmarks that aren't so much him being territorial as him trying to fucking put a bandaid over something he knows Gerard is still hurting from.

Just like this - oh, fuck, yes, that's the angle, that's the way - Gerard knows exactly what that is, and why it's a bad idea, but it doesn't stop him letting it happen. 

Bert palms the back of Gerard's skull, almost soft, pulls on his hair til his head's tilted back, looks him in the eyes, and whatever he sees there, it ends this fucking mess because he chokes in his throat and his dick pulses hard in Gerard's sore, now-slick ass. 

'Can't even fucking finish the job,' Gerard mutters at him, detangling his legs and trying to slip free, trying to get a hand on his own cock without falling and breaking a wrist or his goddamn neck, but Bert hitches him higher against the bus and knocks his fingers away and starts jerking him off. 

It's hard and too-dry, and Gerard curls up like he can get away from the feeling except he's curling into Bert's body, his warmth and his touch, whatever he'll still give after everything they fucking took from each other. 

When he comes over Bert's fist and both their bellies, it feels so fucking good for ten seconds he forgets, he cries out and he reaches out and pulls Bert close. Their mouths press together for the length of a breath, enough for Gerard to whimper into it and Bert to slip him his tongue, softly. 

He tastes of fucking disaster. 

Gerard wrenches himself away, falls stumbling to his knees, mostly onto his abandoned jeans, thank fuck, although he'll be digging gravel out of one shin when he finally makes it back to his own band's bus. He gets to his feet and gets his jeans on faster than he's ever done before, casts around for his Converse and only finds one of them, but does he fuckin' care? No. He can pick gravel out of his feet too if he has to.

Behind him, he hears the click-flick-drag of a cigarette being lit. 

'Nice of you to stop by,' Bert drawls, but Gerard's already leaving, already gone. 

***

Gerard doesn't go to any more parties that tour.

***

They're at … something. Awards. VMAs maybe. Who even the fuck knows. Gerard's wearing a tie, which he doesn't do on stage any more since they moved on to the whole Black Parade schtick. Ties … have memories knotted into them these days. But this one goes with the suit, so. 

So. 

He's wearing a tie and a shirt with no vomit on it and his hair is fucking _fluffy_ and he's staring into a glass of icewater because he knows from long and bitter experience by now that if he drinks Coke someone will offer him rum, jokingly but like a dare; if he drinks orange juice someone will find a way to check it's not a screwdriver.

It's never his band, thank fuck. His band trust him. Right now Toro's off talking to a hat that Gerard assumes belongs to Patrick Stump - Mikey's surrounded by girls but mostly staring at his feet, and Frank Gerard can't see but every so often there's a giggle, so he's probably fine. 

Gerard makes as much small talk as he can with the people who circulate past his barstool, but he knows his voice and face tonight are as plastic as they come, so it's not a surprise no-one stays longer than it takes to be seen exchanging pleasantries. 

Then someone sits down next to him and plops a bottle of water on his knee, and he looks up, and it's Bert. 

His eyes are clear and his shirt's clean too, his hair's brushed too. Just like Gerard's. His grin is crooked and hopeful and he looks so fucking good, it has to be an act. Gerard abruptly hates him again, the way he hated him when he was still wasted and having fun while Gerard was white-knuckling it. 

'Buy you the next round?' Bert asks. There's a question under the question. Around his water bottle, his fists are tight. His knuckles are white.

Gerard gets up and leaves.


End file.
